Between Jobs
by gapfiller
Summary: Wesley between S3 Buffy and S1 Angel. My first try here, so gimme what you got in your brains.


Between Jobs  
  
Wesley pursed his lips tightly as the doctor walked into his room. He already knew what the news was. He had recovered quite nicely and was ready to leave. The thing was, he didn't want to leave. He'd have rather stayed in this hospital bed forever. He knew that what was waiting for him out in the world was going to be much worse.  
As the doctor droned on in what was supposed to be a supportive voice, Wesley kept his lips pursed, his version of the "stiff upper lip" all British people were supposed to have. He shut his eyes and nodded his acknowledgement to the doctor, letting him know that his job was done and that he could leave, which the doctor did.  
Wesley sat up in his bed, feeling a deep stinging in his face. It wasn't the blow the vampire had dealt him in that battle at Sunnydale High, but the knowledge that he was an utter failure. He'd proven it time and again. And now that he was up and ready to go about, he would have to prove it again, in front of the Council.  
  
He'd just finished checking himself out at the front desk. He smoothed out the wrinkles on his suit, or at least tried to. He sighed. No sense in keeping up appearances. You should just look like the failure you are.  
Wesley looked out the glass wall and doors that led outside. No goodbyes from anyone. It was just as well. He didn't really want to see any of his so-called associates in Sunnydale.   
Those bastards, he thought darkly. And they said the British were snooty. Not a single one of them gave him so much as the benefit of the doubt. Both the Slayers and that blonde's little circle of friends shunned him from the very beginning. Well, there was Cordelia, but even that didn't turn out well in the end.  
The first word out the blonde's mouth: "Is he evil?" The first words out of Faith's when she found out he was her new Watcher: "Screw that." And every one of them rode him for all he was worth for each screwup, of which there were many.  
Eyes still shut, he sighed, recounting every single mishap in his disastrous stint as Watcher in Sunnydale. No one would listen to him, no one took him seriously. Not that he had done anything to earn attention or respect. His first encounter in the field left him begging for his life and looking the utter fool compared to Giles. His last battle in Sunnydale simply involved his face hitting an undead fist and then darkness. And there were all the failures in between.  
He was all set to leave, but a last moment thought crept into Wesley's mind. A simple question to the front desk got him the answer he needed.  
  
Wesley stepped into the darkened room where one of his former charges lay, in a coma. It was silent save for the steady beeping of the machine affixed to her. Her face was a bruised and battered color, but there was no sign of the stab wound she had taken from Buffy. It was cleaned up, of course. Oddly enough, she looked so serene and peaceful, unlike what she had been when she was awake.  
He didn't know why he had to see her. He just knew he had to do it one last time. Maybe just another way to punish himself for all he had done. It was what he deserved. He just had to see what was the result of his watchful eye, his guiding hand.  
No words were spoken. He just looked at her for a while before leaving.  
  
"You're fired."  
Even though Wesley knew he shouldn't be surprised, he was. Yes, the report didn't exactly cast himself in a glowing light. Thanks to him, the Council had lost two Slayers in its crusade, one in a coma, the other gone renegade, but Wesley could honestly say that he was surprised.  
For one thing, it meant that the world he had come to know, the one he had thought was his world, was about to throw him out. A person didn't join the Watchers just as a way to pay the bills, after all. Why wouldn't he be a little surprised?  
Being fired from the Watchers wasn't a common occurence, but the procedure was pretty much the same as in most other organizations: pack your stuff and get out.  
None of the other Watchers were willing to talk to him, but he could feel their eyes bearing down on him, casting their judgement, their shame that he was actually one of them. Wesley couldn't really blame them.  
His belongings were few and fit into a simple leather backpack he slung over his shoulder.  
He left the front door of the Watcher's Council Headquarters and had barely taken two steps outside when the door slammed behind him with a clear message that he wasn't even to set eyes on the great oak doors ever again. From outside, Headquarters was a grand marvel of masonry. It was supposedly a library, but one with a very exclusive membership, armed guards with icy demeanors, and a tall black spear fence that formed a neat square around the old building.  
As soon as he cleared the outer gate, they closed in on groaning hinges, slamming with a rattling that seemed to mock him.  
Wesley looked down one end of the morning London street and then the other. The first question to pop in his mind was "What in the hell am I going to do now?"  
  
Probably the first reaction most people would have in Wesley's situation would be to run home. Illusions of security and memories of protecting parents would guide most back to where they started. Trying to go back into the womb, as it were. Not Wesley. Most of his memories were bad, especially of Father. Frankly, he hoped the old bastard was dead and buried. But even if he was, home itself just held too many bad memories. He was never very popular among his peers back home. Everyone would always taunt and berate him for his bookish and "stuck up" manner, though where the "stuck up" part came from, he didn't know. He never had anything to really be "stuck up" about except when he became a Watcher, and he couldn't exactly just brag that fact to anyone. And that was gone now.  
He supposed he hadn't really changed since he left home. He remembered setting off, vowing to prove everyone wrong, especially Father. He would succeed. The first night away from home, the only thought running through his mind was that he was in way over his head. The only question in his mind was "What in the hell am I going to do now?"  
Joining the Watchers was the best thing that could have happened to him. It was all purely by luck and coincidence. He'd just managed to somehow look impressive for once while the right eyes were watching. It was a good thing, too, as he was ready to swallow his pride and return home defeated.  
The structured atmosphere of the Watchers suited him just fine. Simply do as you're told and good things will come. Or at least, bad things won't happen. That wasn't always the case at home, no matter how hard he tried to please Father. Following instructions was an easy thing to do and everything came with instructions among the Watchers. There was always a certain way to do this and do that and Wesley found that he had a knack for doing whatever the Council dealt him. It was a simple matter of following instructions.  
Only there weren't any instructions on how to watch over two willful, adolescent Slayers. Or how to deal with an insane Slayer. Or one gone renegade. Freedom didn't seem to go very well with him.  
No, he hadn't changed at all.  
He also knew that his home wouldn't have changed. It was one of those small places that would always stay small, where everyone knew everyone else and reputations were set in stone.  
No, it was better to be a nobody in big, old London. Start off somewhere where the slate was clean.  
  
With his training as a Watcher, Wesley had a great deal of knowledge and skills. He had an expansive knowledge of demon lore, their weaknesses, and their habits. He could dissect numerous demon races, identifying vital organs and glands, many of which were vital ingredients in various rituals and elixirs. He could perform a number of mystic rituals and could concoct potions of various effects.  
None of that could get him a decent job in London. He managed to make a paltry subsistence by putting tickets and sensors on clothing inside a warehouse. He shared a room with two college lowlifes, tried to shake off the scent of old marijuana smoke from his roomies, and ate an inhuman amount of Ramen noodles. With all the sacrifices, he was just barely breaking even, having to dip into his meager savings only occasionally.  
Still, he was getting by. But Wesley could feel it, that feeling that this bare existence was slowly grinding him down. He wanted to leave, find something else, but there was no way out. He had little money and no place to go. He was stuck.  
And like many people stuck, he turned to drink. Wesley was careful enough not to make this a regular habit (it also helped that his budget simply didn't allow for it), but decided to indulge himself this one night. It was the end of the work week and he really needed a couple of pints.  
He was just starting to feel artificially good and was about to temporarily forget his troubles when a familiar voice irked his ears.  
"Allo, what do we have here?"  
Charles Winforth was a Watcher. Still was, unlike Wesley. Charles had joined up with the Watchers at about the same time as him. They frequently saw each other during their training. Wesley wasn't sure why, but Charles seemed to have made it his personal goal to make life as unpleasant as possible for him. He had to have been the most irritating soul he had ever known before meeting Buffy. The thing was, most people seemed to like him.  
"Wesley Wyndom Price, how *are* you?" He planted himself on the padded stool next to Wesley like he was an old friend.  
"Hello, Charles," Wesley said, mustering every bit of coldness he had into his voice.  
"Why, I haven't seen you since that. . .unpleasant affair back at Headquarters."  
Wesley nodded and tried not to look at him, remaining silent. He really should've known that it wouldn't work. It never had.  
"So, still keeping busy? I'm sure it's quite the adjustment.  
"You know, we haven't forgotten you back home. Your name's as famous as the best Slayers'. All the old Watchers are telling the new Watchers the horror stories about you. 'Be good, or you'll end up like Wesley Wyndom Price.' 'Everything you touch goes bad, are you trying to be the next Wesley Wyndom Price?'" Charles leaned back and crossed his arms. "At least you don't have to watch some hot-headed young girl get herself into trouble anymore. Or girls, wasn't it?"  
Again, Wesley was silent. He resolved that this would be a one sided conversation.  
"Me, I still have my 'sacred duty'." Charles snickered. "It's starting to pay off, though. She's thirteen and already turning into quite the filly." He licked his lips. "I can't wait to see just how she turns out. I'll be sure to treat her right when it's her time." He leaned in closely, so much so that Wesley could smell the faint alcoholic fumes on his breath. However, Wesley knew better than to blame Charles's behavior on drink. He knew him well enough to know that this was how he was really like. "I'll make sure she loves me in every way imagineable. Wouldn't want her to turn her back on us or get herself into a coma, eh?"  
Wesley couldn't take it anymore. He slammed down his quarter full mug and rose from his seat. Charles abrubtly caught him on the arm.  
"Here now, don't be rude. I wasn't done yet."  
"I am," Wesley said, pushing him away.  
Charles wasn't the type who let push come to shove. He just went straight to the punch. He caught Wesley square on the side of his head, knocking off his glasses and sending the ex-Watcher down.  
Wesley tried to fight the shock of the pain as he got up in a crawl. He searched for his glasses across the floor and was just about to reach for them when a leather shoe connected with his chin, sending him back down.  
"Why don't you stay down, Price?" Charles snarled. "It's where you belong. Haven't you seen yourself in action long enough to notice?"  
"Alright, that's enough!" the bartender bellowed, slamming his palm on the bar. "Get out!"  
Hardly fazed, Charles laughed and ambled his way out. On his way, he very casually kicked Wesley's glasses next to his body.  
On the ground, Wesley gritted his teeth, feeling the pain in his chest. It wasn't the beating he had taken, but the sting of failure, which was much worse. He barely even heard the obligatory question of if he was alright. He picked up his glasses, let out a gasp of inner pain between clenched teeth and stumbled his way out of the bar.  
  
Thankfully, neither of his drug addled roomies were home. Wesley simply crept into bed and let everything out freely. The stiff upper lip only applied when there were people watching. He was so mad, he thought the feeling alone was going to kill him this night. Even when he tried to hide, his failure would find him and sting him. He couldn't help but feel that failing was his nature. Maybe he did belong at the floor of everyone else.  
  
He could barely hold himself in as he trudged through work the next day. All through the day, he tried to keep his face from constricting into a mask of pain and hate.  
After work was done, he was told that he would have to be laid off for a while. No more work available, you see. We'll call you when we need you. Even though it really had nothing to do with anything he'd done, Wesley couldn't help but feel that this all confirmed his station in life: failure. Oddly enough, it actually seemed to make the pain inside lift a little. Maybe it was just acceptance.  
  
Having nothing to do with himself, Wesley spent many numbingly long days, well, doing nothing with himself. Mainly, he reviewed his various failures from the past, from childhood to present, focusing mostly on his most recent foul ups, especially Buffy and Faith and his recent encounter with Charles Winforth. It just let him know that he couldn't hide from his past, no matter how meek he tried to be.  
If hiding from a problem failed, there was only one thing to do: run away to a new place and hide there. He had to get out of here. The problem was, how? He had little money and he wanted to get *far* away, as in out of the country. There were simply too many Watchers in England, too much of a chance that he'd meet up with unpleasant old faces.  
Not finding any solution to the dilemma, Wesley returned to the time honoured nonsolution of drink. He didn't get a chance, though, as when he set foot through the door, he saw Charles Winforth inside the bar.  
Wesley bit his lip. He hadn't been thinking. Why did he have to go to the same bar again? He was just about to leave before he could be noticed, but then he noticed something and stopped.  
This time, Charles was sober and playing darts. It looked like he was amassing quite a sum from what looked like various college students and barflys and having a lot of fun doing it, too. Most of the others looked pretty surly, waiting for the chance to beat him and get their money back. None of them were going to get it, either. Charles was good, usually scoring one fifties and one sixties. Once, he even got a perfect one eighty, which even his competitors had to cheer.  
Wesley looked into his wallet. He'd only brought enough to get a few drinks, but decided that there was a worthier use for his money. If there was one thing that could take away the sting of failure, it was the chance at revenge. The memory of how he'd just threw his failure in his face and knocked him down when he dared to think he was something more than nothing burned in Wesley's mind. Just the sight of that smug face and knowing the kind of lecherous trash behind that face brought out the fight in Wesley.  
Biting his lower lip and suddenly feeling a surge of determined confidence, Wesley knew just how he'd take his revenge. Wesley joined the crowd, coolly waiting for a turn at Charles, watching his winnings grow and grow. When it finally was his turn, Charles grinned at him as if he had just noticed him.  
"Allo, Wes. Thinking of going a round with me? I don't wager in lost dignity, you know."  
Wesley took out all the money he had planned for drinking, five pounds. "This'll be good to start."  
In the first game, Charles scored one hundred forty. Wesley eeked by with a hundred forty three. That was an extra five pounds in his pocket.  
"Hm," Charles smirked. He was trying to look cheerful, but Wesley could feel his anger at losing. He allowed himself just enough of a smug grin to stoke the fire in Charles.  
Wesley knew Charles had a real weakness for gambling and he hated to lose. And like many sore losers, he hated to lose by a small margin. After the first three wins, all close games, there weren't any more challengers. Everyone had become a spectator of the contest between Wesley and Charles.  
Wesley knew he could milk Charles for quite a sum, but even he was starting to get a little nervous as the winnings piled up after the first dozen games. Charles was good, but not as good as he was. All he had to do was win some, then throw a game or two so as to give Charles a sense of hope and up the wager and trounce him again. Wesley could count only one game where Charles beat him simply as a matter of skill. As the games wore on, Charles got more angry and took in a few drinks, too, throwing off his game.  
Even so, Wesley was getting nervous. Charles had definitely gotten in a few more drinks than he could handle and he still wouldn't give up. Wesley was waiting for Charles to simply give up and leave him with his victory, but he wouldn't stop. Faced with yet another loss, Charles found that he had lost all the winnings he had taken from the other bar patrons. However, Wesley could still see the naked need to beat him in his eyes. He dug into his wallet and pulled out a hefty sum.  
"One last game," Charles harrumphed, his eyes suddenly very clear. "Double or nothing."  
Wesley started to wonder if he was the one being hustled. "I think I've taken enough of your money."  
"Ha!" Charles bellowed. "I haven't even dug into my pockets yet. That's just what I've taken from everyone here." He rolled up his eyes. "But if you want to quit, fine. I'm just glad you remembered where your place is. I would have hated to remind you like on that other night."  
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "You're on."  
"You go first, then, eh?"  
As Wesley picked up the first dart, things suddenly felt very different. The pressure was suddenly on him. The gathered crowd who had been cheering him on only minutes ago were now dead silent. No support. Why didn't he just pick up his winnings and leave? He looked to Charles's eyes and saw not a single flicker of drunkeness.  
The plan was simple, a perfect one eighty. Wesley promised himself that if Charles didn't give up here, he'd just leave. Under other circumstances, Wesley could have done it half asleep. But now, each moment was agony. The tossing of the dart, waiting for it to land against the cork board, listening to the dull thud, all of it was too much to bear. When had he ever done well under pressure? Wesley nailed the first two shots, but the successes didn't make him feel any better. Taking a deep breath, he tossed the third dart pressed his lips together when he saw it go a bit low. However, it landed just inside the tiny border of his target. Perfect game.  
The crowd cheered and Wesley felt a huge sense of relief. Charles, however, was unfazed. With almost casual movements of his wrist, he tossed a tying game.  
"Well, then," he said cheerfully. "Let's just let this roll over and this time I'll go first, eh?"  
One, two, three. Perfect one eighty without even a hint of pressure.  
Wesley's nerves were doing overtime. What had he gotten himself into? Each toss was like pulling the trigger on himself in Russian Roulette. He just knew the loaded chamber that was his failure was drawing closer. One...two...and...three. Perfect one eighty.  
Again, Charles wasn't fazed. "First toss is yours again, Price."  
It was like a repeat of his first tying game, only that last toss which looked low was actually too low. It missed the all important sliver that was his target. His score, one hundred forty.  
Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, too bad. You always did crack under pressure, Wesley. Let me show you how it's done."  
With almost casual flicks of the wrist, he nailed two bullseyes, each fifty points.  
Charles shook his head, a mocking smile on his lips. "You really thought you could walk away a winner? You actually thought you could do something right? Every time you get the chance to truly prove yourself, you only prove yourself a failure. It's just who you are, Wes. I hope you've learned your lesson this time." He cast a winning face to the crowd around him and then turned to Wesley, his face suddenly stone. He said in a voice only Wesley could hear, "Never try to play me." With that, he let out the last dart.  
He missed by about the same margin as Wesley missed his mark. Just missed the bullseye. His score was one hundred twenty five. The shock on Charles's face was priceless. Wesley would never forget it for as long as he lived.  
He clapped Charles on the shoulder, who still had the same look of shock on his face. "Well, sport, I believe that's game. Pay up."  
Charles still had that shocked look on his face. He turned to Wesley, his face still that same shocked mask, seeming to ask, "How?"  
"I believe it's called failing. Don't worry, it happens to everyone. Pay up, please."  
By the end of the whole affair, five hundred pounds were in Wesley's possession and a huge scowl was about the only thing Charles had. For a moment, it looked like Charles wasn't going to let Wesley collect his winnings, but there was too much of a crowd on the ex-Watcher's side for him to try anything.  
Wesley returned to his soon to be former residence, feeling quite satisfied. It was good to win once in a while. It was going to be even better when he got out of this place. He had no illusions about his luck holding out here. Five hundred pounds and the piddling savings he had would be more than enough for a plane ticket with plenty left over to get himself started over.  
There was really only one destination that was really on Wesley's mind. Even with his bad experiences there, he'd really gotten a taste for America. Say what you will, he thought it was a great place to be. And there was one thing that everyone could agree about the place: it was a lot bigger than England.  
Somewhere along the East Coast ought to do... 


End file.
